All Aboard the Coma Express
by phantomphan2000
Summary: "Nothing matters. Until it does. And then you die. Game over." House is dead. Well, close. He's a spirit—unable to die, unable to re–enter his comatose body. So when PPTH experiences temperature fluctuations and strange electrical problems that affect patients, that's where Sam and Dean Winchester come in. AU, House-set during 2x24, SPN-S5
1. Denial: Through

**A/N: I recently started watching House, and well... this happened.**

_**Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only. I own nothing.**_

_Nothing is free. Everything has to be paid for. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing. For every life, a death._

(Ted Hughes, "The Tiger's Bones")

* * *

**Denial: Through**

Everybody lies.

It's not a very noteworthy fact, if he's being honest—unless you take into consideration that he seems to be the only one who can wrap his brain around the concept. No one thinks ahead, no one notices the pattern; because they don't bother looking for answers they think they already have. But he does. Sure, he sees Point A and Point B just like the rest of them, and the line that connects the two. (Of course every beginning will have an ending, though it's never that simple, and if it is, he doesn't allow himself time enough to care and play dot–to–dot.) It's the points they keep forgetting—the tiny, insignificant events that produce several more bold lines and create a picture, a map—a mental diagram he can read and interpret for his three little monkeys and the occasional dying patient. He lays out the cards as they are, the hand _some_ will marvel at later when they discover he's right. The hand _some_ will think he had up his sleeve from the start. The hand _some_ will shy away from when their instincts kick in and tell them he's crazy and they start to believe it.

Maybe they're right. Maybe he's wrong.

But it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

Until it does.

And then you die.

Game over.

He lets the words crash over him like an endless tidal wave, play on constant repeat as he limps down the hall to his office, finding comfort in the harsh reality of truth, eagerly toeing the line between what is easy and what is right—as he has done for as long as he can remember. Going to his office? Easy. Diagnosing a patient and giving them the proper treatment? Right. There is no middle ground, and he knows it.

So, today, he takes the easy route.

He stops at the glass door, eyes following the reflection of Cuddy as she stalks right past him without a word, immensely relieved she doesn't stop by for a chat about his recent truancy in the clinic. But, then again, when would she ever pass up the opportunity to tell him how to do his job? And then he frowns, catching sight of a growing pile of mail overtaking his desk. And he wonders how he could have let Cameron off secretary duty for such an extended period of time . . . and can't remember.

A strong sense of wrongness floods his veins, mixing perfectly with the blood to breed panic beneath his ribs, where his heart quickens, pumping at an astronomical rate. The poison courses through his body in seconds and sets his veins alight with fire, forcing him to his knees. His mind surges on as his vision blurs and stomach churns, collapses to the tiled floor, face pressed to the boring color and design, light shooting around the glass door to his office like stars, constricting his pupils even as he fights to keep his eyes open, to think, to breathe, to _stay alive._

And then the pain vanishes.

As if there had never been any at all.

But he knows better.

He glances around when he sits up slowly, watching, detached as nurses and doctors alike pass him by without even so much as a hint of concern, a nod of acknowledgement. The hot anger that suddenly bubbles in the pit of his stomach is a pointless follow–up to the momentary confusion—pushing himself to his feet, he knows it instantly, the fluorescent lights overhead dimming and flashing faintly as if about to give out. Which, oddly enough, seems more important to the nurses and doctors he's never bothered to associate himself with than his unforeseen collapse.

But he doesn't blame them.

Because how can he expect them to give when he does nothing but take?

That's when it dawns on him. Experimentally, ever–so–slightly, he shifts his weight to the bad leg that's labeled him a cripple. There's no pain. Zilch. Nada. And he knows something isn't right. He's lived with pain long enough that it's impossible for him _not_ to be aware of its absence. He reaches into the pocket that always contains a bottle of Vicodin pills—and instead his hand brushes against a much softer material. Looking down, he finds he's barefoot and wearing a hospital gown.

And the scene has changed when he glances back up. No longer is he outside his office—why had he been there, anyway?—surrounded by heartless medical staff. Maybe he had never been there at all. No, he's been standing at the door to the ICU, taking in the sight of Cameron reading at the bedside of a comatose patient. He shakes his head. "You're pathetic," he tells her hoarsely.

She ignores him completely. And it wouldn't usually rouse a reaction from him, except pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place. So he steps forward on his now pain–free leg and follows her gaze when her eyes shift to the unconscious guy who had the misfortune to fall into a coma—and freezes.

It's _him_.

* * *

"_Dean_."

Sam snaps his fingers in front of his older brother's face to get his attention. Dean shakes his head and looks back, slapping Sam's hand out of his face. "Dude, do you mind?" His eyes find the waitress across the room again just before she disappears into the back kitchen. "See? You scared her off." Dean sinks his teeth into a juicy Biggerson burger and chews, slightly annoyed. "Way to go," he mumbles around the bite, sarcasm still somehow evident. "You want a cookie?"

Sam sighs heavily. "Can you listen for five minutes?" He scans his laptop screen again. "Okay, it says there have been several power outages in the same section of the building in the past week—"

"So?" Dean asks, shrugging. "Maybe they should call an electrician."

His little brother glares at him as if to say, _You think you're real cute, don't you?_ Pausing to read more of the article, Sam's eyebrows raise. "They already did. Twice in two days."

"And still nada?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope, nothing wrong with the wiring. The lights still flicker on and off without warning, though, which apparently reduced a mental patient to tears at one point—"

Dean sighs impatiently. "Can you get to the part where we come in?"

He scrolls further down the page, and then highlights a small paragraph, turning the laptop so Dean can read. "Cold spots," he says, as if that solves everything.

Dean frowns. Because it's never that easy. "Ghost? Vengeful spirit, maybe?"

"Looks like it," Sam says, taking back the laptop. His brow furrows. "Weird name for a hospital, though."

"Which one is it again?"

Sam reads the name from the screen like it's a foreign language. "Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital here in New Jersey."

"Huh," Dean says. "Never heard of it."

Sam closes the laptop and finishes his cup of coffee just as the waitress returns with the bill, at which point Dean sees the interest spark in Sam's eyes, and he grins from ear to ear like an idiot. His younger brother clears his throat, mumbles his thanks quietly, and glances out the window—a good cover–up that fools the unsuspecting waitress, but not Dean Winchester.

He throws his burger down onto his plate and leans forward, forearms pressed to the tabletop, when she's gone again. "What the hell are you waiting for, Sammy?" Dean asks animatedly. "It's 2012—make a move!"

"Cut it out, Dean," Sam says, giving his older sibling a stern look before studying the inside of his empty cup, but not really _seeing_ it. "I mean it."

Dean smirks and his eyebrows raise challengingly. "Make me." He tips his head back, shoveling a handful of fries into his open mouth, chasing them down with a few ketchup packets.

"Bite me."

Dean shrugs. "Not really my style." He jerks a thumb in the direction of the young waitress just as she disappears yet again into the back of the restaurant. "You should ask Debbie."

Sam glares dubiously at him. "That's probably not even her name, Sherlock." He glances at the clock on the wall and stands, ignoring his older brother's continued harmless jibes. Sam tucks the laptop under his arm as Dean pulls out his wallet to leave a tip. "Think we can be there in half an hour?"

The elder Winchester stares out the window at his sleek 1967 Chevy Impala gleaming in the afternoon sun and slaps two bills down on the table. "_Twenty_ minutes," he amends. Picking up a lone piece of bacon from his plate for the road, Dean adds, "Tops."

* * *

He thinks at first it must be a mistake, that someone's playing a cruel joke—_is it April Fool's already?_—taken his cane, numbed his leg somehow, gotten a body double. And when he finds faults in this theory, he moves on to the next and much more likely: It's a nightmare. He's dreaming—he has to be. Nothing else explains why there are two of him, but, regardless, he doesn't need the hospital bracelet to confirm what he already knows to be true.

The body is his. _Really_ his.

His respiratory pattern is the first indication, but the other vital signs also point to a coma, the growth on his face brighter than a neon sign, telling him he's been lying there, dead to the world, for three, maybe four days with a hole in his brain. He sees the bandage on his neck, frowning when he tries to remember the second shot. But, bottom line, if he's _here_, he can't be _there_. And if he's _there_, he can't be _here_. And so his mind spins and he finds himself gripping the side of the hospital bed for support, tempted to pinch the hell out of his arm.

Then he remembers he's not alone.

"Cameron," he says, waiting for her to meet his gaze. She ignores him again and turns a page of the book in her lap. "_Dr. Cameron_," he tries, nearly shouting. No response. Already, he's had enough of this game. He paces to her side and waves a hand in front of her face. "_Allison_!"

She yawns.

He huffs out a quick breath. "Okay," he drawls slowly, pulling back, pointing an accusing finger at her. "I see what you're doing here. The silent treatment. Well, I've got news for you, Ms. Bookworm: I'm not dead yet. And two can play this game." He lifts his hand to snatch the book from her hands, but misses, his fingers seeming to go right _through_ the pages. Frustrated, he makes another attempt, only to get the same result. By the third time he's fuming, so he plants his feet, raises his arm, and manages to send the paperback flying in a high arch across the room.

"Wow," he says, laughing at the distance the thing got. He looks back to Cameron with a smile on his face. "Guess I don't know my own—"

But her eyes are darting wildly around the room, searching for what sent her reading material airborne, apparently not _seeing_ him _standing three feet in front of her._ Cameron steps toward the bed after a moment of unsteady breathing, and he moves out of the way to prevent her crashing into him, surprise gradually slipping from her features and something akin to hope overtaking them. He watches carefully as she takes his body's lifeless hand in hers, and even though he's not fused with it and completely separate from it, his own hand tingles from physical contact with another human being. He holds it out, glances down at it, curls it into a tight fist, knuckles whitening.

It makes no sense.

"So, what?" he asks her back when she releases his hand. "Am I just some ghost to you now?" He points to the motionless body on the bed. "You'd rather have some freaky, lifelike mannequin hooked up to machines as opposed to having the real thing?" He sticks his arms out at his sides to emphasize his presence, but Cameron seems intent on ignoring him in this nightmare, and getting her attention is turning out to be more work than it's worth. "Okay, fine." He shrugs. "I always liked Wilson better, anyway." He waits for a response, but she doesn't have one, and so he turns away towards the door, looking for a calendar or any indication of what day it might be. He's just about to push open the door and step out into the hallway to find the oncologist when it opens.

He passes _through_ the door and _through_ the person who walks in. And then _through _the door again when it swings shut. He's frozen for a minute as his mind processes what just happened and how it took three tries to chuck a book clean across the room not five minutes before, how he's seemed invisible to everyone he's met. He can see the visitor is Wilson when he whips around, standing next to Cameron by the hospital bed, one arm around her back to comfort her.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "_No. _I'm not dead, you idiots! I'm here, I'm _right here—_" _Why can't you see me? _

"How's he doing?" Wilson asks, looking down at the comatose body. He wants to take a step toward them, but his feet aren't working properly, and all he can think is the question must be more for Cameron's benefit than his best friend's own; any doctor could see his body's become a vegetable.

Cameron sighs. "The same."

"And you?"

She studies Wilson for a moment, weighing the sincerity in his voice, knowing her options are limited—that she can't lie to him. "I'm . . . dealing."

His best friend pats her shoulder softly. "He's gonna be just fine, Allison. Trust me, he's one stubborn son–of–a–bitch." Wilson squeezes her shoulder lightly. "He'll pull through this."

Cameron nods once. "Thanks, Wilson."

Wilson dips his head in response and moves to go, but hesitates at the door, his hand wrapped around the handle, concerned eyes fixed on Cameron. Then he shakes his head and his face turns up in a small half–smile. Though Wilson doesn't look in his direction—and it's really starting to freak him out because he's _right there_—and his best friend's mouth stays shut, he can almost hear him say, _You don't know how lucky you are, House._

* * *

They reach the place in twenty–_five_ minutes, but Dean insists Sam doesn't know how to read a clock (and Sam just looks at the digital one on his phone, shaking his head as he gets out of the car). Looking up at the hospital from ground level, Sam feels like an ant in comparison—tiny, unimportant.

"So, uh . . . what's wrong with you?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets as he glances at the driver over the Impala's hood, squinting in the sunlight.

Dean's eyebrows scrunch together. "What do you mean?"

Sam shrugs. "Well, I mean, cancer would work up until they start running tests, and then, you know, the whole explaining thing. . . ." He tilts his head, considering Dean. "You could probably fake a believable hacking cough, right? We could say you have bronchitis or something—"

Dean holds up a hand, secretly relieved his little brother had been referring to his staged illness; heart–to–heart talks really weren't his thing. "I'm not much of an actor, Sam. And neither are you."

He nods once. "Right." Sam looks away to think, surprised when Dean steps into his line of vision. He looks at Dean first in confusion, then wearily as he sees the determination written in his older sibling's features, as nothing good ever comes from that expression.

"Hit me."

"_What_?"

"Come on," Dean says encouragingly, voice dashed with a hint of impatience, gesturing for him to take a swing. "Punch me in the nose, and let's get this show on the road, okay?" As Sam's incredulousness morphs into obvious reluctance, he spreads his arms wide. "What? Okay, look, I know it's not ER material—"

"No," Sam agrees, swallowing hard. "It isn't."

"—but it'll get us in there," Dean continues, as if Sam never interrupted. "So . . ." He flicks his hand in annoyance at Sam. "Get angry—or something."

Sam laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation. "Dean, this is stupid."

Dean considers. "Sure it is, but unless you have any better ideas there, Einstein, I vote for this."

So Sam thinks on it, and then smiles a mile wide. "Actually, yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think I do."


	2. Denial: Trust Me, I'm A Doctor

_I'm swimming in the smoke  
Of bridges I have burned  
So don't apologize  
I'm losing what I don't deserve_

(Linkin Park, Burning In the Skies)

**Denial: Trust me, I'm A Doctor**

The kind nurse he interviews at the front desk nods and provides relatively the same information printed in the article, reciting the stories almost word for word, which the news reporter—overdressed in a pressed navy blue suit—takes immediate note of. When he prods her for more, even encourages continuation with small hand movements, she seems to shrink away, afraid or unwilling to elaborate further.

Sam sighs and thanks the nurse, pocketing his blank notepad inside his suit jacket. He clicks his pen and stuffs that in too. Nearly a full minute of foot tapping passes—he's certainly in no hurry—and he hesitates before glancing at his wristwatch. "Mind if I use your restroom?"

The nurse directs him, and he gives a quick nod. And then he's walking, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she isn't watching, darting around the corner, pulling out his vibrating phone.

"Where are you?" he nearly growls into the mouthpiece.

A heartbeat of silence. "Closer than you think."

Sam's chin jerks up and he effectively scans the area for any sign of his older brother in a sea of white coats and clipboards. A loud ding, metal elevator doors sliding open, and then he knows.

Sam is fairly sure he stands there with his mouth hanging partially open long enough for someone to notice before the sole doctor left in the elevator gestures for him to join his little party of one, though no one seems to care. Sam snaps his phone closed, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot as he steps in, right hand covering his left in a patient stance, pretending not to recognize the man standing next to him. The doors barely close before Dean Winchester makes a full turn—arms spread wide—in his newly–acquired white lab coat.

"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks as the elevator ascends.

His little brother's eyes drift to the tag clipped to the breast pocket. "Not bad . . . Dr. House." Sam squints and points at the picture. "You know you look nothing like—"

Dean slaps Sam's hand away. "Shut up. No one's gonna know."

Sam scoffs. "Right." _Because we never get caught,_ he adds silently.

"What did the blonde say?" Dean shifts the conversation instantly, and Sam lets him.

"Same as the article."

"Think she's been questioned before?"

Sam shrugs. "Well, that, or she's had no clue about what's been going on and read the article. Either way, we have nothing to work with . . . Gregory." He chuckles at Dean, who looks down, horrified to find the name on the tag is the one Sam effortlessly tossed his way.

The doors open again and they step out onto the third floor.

"Call me Greg," Dean murmurs.

* * *

_I love you._

_I need you._

_I miss you._

Three things he's never said to her (well, said _and_ meant). Three things he knows he won't say, even if given the chance. Two years of working together, hours of bantering over differentials, and the closest he's ever gotten to any of those three things was asking her back to the hospital after driving her away in the first place. Of course, two out of the three aren't true—hadn't been, couldn't, and wouldn't be—and it feels foolish to admit to himself that he's capable of missing her presence. Stupid, even. Especially when he sees her everyday working diligently beside Foreman and Chase—though sometimes alone, covering his clinic hours that have been divided between the doctors in silent agreement, which seems like a huge waste of the time she could be spending doing a multitude of other things, like sorting through his mail—but still somehow detached. Not just from her colleagues, but everyone and everything. And, despite the fun he's had being "invisible", all House can think is how poorly he treated her, and Wilson's words:

_"You had the perfect person, and you blew it."_

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. But no amount of clogging toilets and jamming vending machines is going to make him feel any less crappy about how she's been acting. Sure, he could feel bad about bashing Foreman, and possibly Chase, but he doesn't. Because they can handle it. Because they can take care of themselves when it comes to do or die and their ass of a boss lapses into a coma after getting shot in the head and jugular. Though Cameron has always been a puzzle to him—maybe that's why she'd wanted to seem so _not simple_, and then he'd be interested—and now is no different.

But he watches the trio. Not all day long anymore like he'd started out doing, just when they're on the verge of finding the right track and jumping in headfirst. House studiously ignores the times he seems to poof into the same room as his employees when he was just somewhere else, flooding the bathrooms, mixing up paperwork on Cuddy's desk with huge gusts of air, provided by the windows he forced opened. He shrugs off the spaces of time he can't account for. Of course, he stopped trying to talk to them all after the first few hours and settled on continuing to make their lives miserable, only with a bit more subtlety, which really has never been his style. But being invisible and capable of moving only certain things, he doesn't really have much choice. He does what he can while he can. And once one or all the Musketeers solve the case, everything goes back to being boring, as usual.

Everything is and as it should be.

Except it isn't.

And even though no one can physically see him, House leaves his hints: medical articles and magazines concerning his suspicions related to their current case sitting out in the open. A few times they surprise him, coming to a conclusion faster than he thought possible without so much as blinking an eye, paging through the books. Complications rise and disappear, and lives are saved.

Despite his absence, they do their jobs just as well.

* * *

"Dean, you're not wearing cowboy boots, okay? So stop acting like—like you're Dr. Sexy, or something." He elbows his brother in the ribs to stop Dean from smiling flirtatiously, increasingly aware of passing female medical staff. "People are staring."

The oldest Winchester covers his side protectively and frowns at Sam. "I'm not— Wait, seriously?" He stops in the middle of the hallway and gestures to himself. "You think I'm _acting_?" Dean smiles and laughs, shaking his head from side to side. "Wow, I guess nothing gets past you, huh? Okay, yeah," he admits, lowering his voice. "I'm not a doctor, Sam—I've got no choice. You didn't want to go with my plan and play dress–up, so don't get pissed at me for this annoying compromise you came up with." He pats his brother on the shoulder, flashing a winning smile. "Happy now, cupcake?"

"Fine," Sam says, ignoring the comment. He slows his pace to match Dean's. "Where are we going, anyway? And why did finding a cheap doctor getup take so long?"

Dean shrugs, hooking a thumb on the lapel of his lab coat. "Found this on the fourth floor in a dark office. Get this: Guy has an old time TV, a PSP, and a crapload of CD's."

"Sounds like he's got a lot of time on his hands."

"No kidding," Dean agrees. "Other than that, not much else up there."

Sam smirks knowingly. "Too many big words you didn't know?"

"No," he replies unconvincingly in an instant. At Sam's unwavering look, Dean adds, "Not . . . _really_."

His little brother gestures to their surroundings. "And we're here now because—?"

Dean frowns. "Haven't you heard?" He begins glancing into patient rooms as they pass, not really sure what he's looking for. He temporarily meets Sam's gaze. "This hospital's haunted."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know _that_. I meant, why aren't we searching the morgue? You know, the place they keep dead bodies?" Fed up with Dean's stubborn quest for nothing, he places a hand on his older brother's shoulder and spins him around, anger getting the best of him. "I'm serious, Dean. Stop screwing around. We're working a case here, all right? We don't have time—"

"Remember when Dad died?"

Sam goes silent.

"He made a deal. Him for me. And that damn demon won." Dean shakes his head. "I don't remember much about it, Sam, but I know I had these . . . horrible nightmares while I was out. You and Dad—you fought. And I tried to stop it, but there was something after me, something I found in his journal. A reaper was trying to take people close to death . . . and I was one of them."

He isn't sure what to say at first, but opens his mouth and blurts, "They were just dreams, Dean—"

"I don't think that anymore, Sammy," Dean interrupts. "Maybe it was real. Sure _felt_ real. I was a damn spirit, hunting a reaper. And there was this girl. . . . She was stuck, too." He looks into the nearest hospital room through the sliding glass door and then back at Sam. "What if that's what's happening here? It makes sense."

Sam sighs. "It doesn't," he insists. "Being in a coma doesn't automatically make you a spirit."

"What if I can stop it?"

"There are _dozens_ of patients here, not just a handful we can check."

"So?"

Sam scrambles for an argument. "So it'll take longer than we thought. And do you really think you can pass for a doctor longer than a few hours?"

Dean shrugs again, determined. "Guess we'll find out."

* * *

He doesn't know what day it is or what time it is. He doesn't know for the life of him why he's on the roof, looking out into the blinding light of the setting sun when he doesn't even technically have eyes. Clouds overhead burn bright pink and orange, a large portion a deep purple, and he doesn't understand why he can't feel the wind that moves them across the sky. House can see leaves whirling past in the unsteady breeze, wishing things could be the way they were before.

Just as the air settles, the door opens.

And out steps Allison Cameron.

"Miss me?" he can't help but ask. But then he remembers she can't hear him and watches her face carefully. Sunlight falls over her, revealing eyes ringed with dark shadows, indicating lack of sleep. She nearly crashes into the ledge a few feet from where he stands to her right, leaning heavily on the stone and brick. She's clearly exhausted from his clinic hours, covering some designated to Chase and Foreman. He sighs and walks—limping becoming history—to her side, looking down at her. "You're an idiot."

She holds her head up with one arm positioned on the ledge, eyelids drooping. He imagines she agrees with him.

He rests his forearms on the ledge next to her, unable to feel the roughness of the material, gazing out into the distance. "This sucks. Except the never having to go to the bathroom part," House amends. "Bottom line is, coma's are boring."

Cameron's pager suddenly goes off, and to his surprise, she launches it over the ledge. They watch it plummet until it becomes a black speck and disappears.

"I guess anger management never hurts."

She takes a step back, and for a brief moment, he fears she'll do the unthinkable and follow her pager as she eyes the ledge thoughtfully, but instead turns and slumps to the ground, defeated, with her back pressed against hard stone. And then he's fearful that she'll burst into tears—and he can't pat her on the back and tell her everything will be alright, if that's even what he's supposed to _do_—but she remains distant and quiet, curling up into herself. Isolated. Alone on a deserted island far out at sea. House hopes she'll speak, but who would she talk to? Herself? Every time he's opened his mouth, he might as well have been talking to his own damn self. He already has enough self–loathing stored away for being a jerk and getting shot, but a depressed and rapidly breaking Cameron will rip his heart out, with or without his permission.

Not that he's had one to take all these years, but who's keeping track?

He sits cautiously, waiting for the meltdown that's sure to come. "I'm sorry," she whispers to the wind.

_Great. Now she thinks it's her fault. Am I the biggest ass on the planet? _"Shut up," House growls. Then, more softly, even though she can't hear, "It's got nothing to do with you. Go to my office, take the Ben Franklin under my keyboard, and head to the spa or something. Have some fun."

But she won't.

He holds up his hands. "Okay, you got me. Ben Franklin's in my lab coat. Thought it would be a good place for him since I never wear it."

She tilts her head back until it rests against the brick ledge.

House stands and takes several steps away from Cameron. "Omnes te moriturum amant," he mumbles, the breeze whipping the words high above him into golden light. "You should hate me."

She closes her eyes.

House loses it. "You're so damn frustrating! You don't get to be sorry, you don't get to be miserable." He points to his chest. "That's _my_ job. You just had to go and rub your niceness on me, didn't you? And guess what? Some of my horribly moody self got on you in the process!" He watches her, eyes still closed. He throws up his hands. "This is stupid. I must be dead or dying because you sure as hell aren't listening. And neither is anybody else."

He knows he's not dead. Because even if no one can hear _him_, he can hear _them_, loud and clear.

Cameron struggles to get to her feet, and despite his unpredicted outburst, he feels exactly the same, if not a little worse. She manages the feat and enters the stairwell, door banging shut behind her.

And since he's alone, and since she's gone, he asks the question that's always haunted him since discovering her feelings.

"Why couldn't you have loved someone worth the trouble?"

* * *

"Okay, plan?"

Dean looks incredulous. "_Plan_? I thought we were making this up as we go along. Otherwise, where's the fun in it?"

"We don't have _time_ for fun."

"Whatever." Dean glances left, then right from his spot in the middle of the hallway. "Check the entire floor for coma people—"

"Comatose patients," Sam corrects.

Dean waves the term away. He hadn't really paid much attention to the medical terminology on his favorite show, and Sam nagging at him just wasted even _more_ time. "Whatever," he repeats, exasperated. "Check, and if it's clear, we'll move to the second floor, okay? Meet back here in half an hour."

Sam nods. "I'll take the far side." And he sets off, hoping not to be questioned by medical staff, though he can easily lie and say he's a patient's relative looking for the men's room. The thought makes him smile, if only a little, and he thinks he can squeeze in a minute of fun here or there. For Dean's sake, at least.

Dean Winchester heads in the opposite direction, trying to appear casual. When a nurse fumbles and drops a stack of files, he stops to help, slyly snagging one in the process, keeping up his seemingly professional look. He chuckles quietly to himself. "Dr. House to the rescue." And he rounds the corner out of sight.

Neither brother notices the gruff old doctor leaning against the wall, arms crossed, having overheard the entire conversation. He wastes no time in jogging after the older brother.


End file.
